Arda is dying.
Arda has been dying ever since before the First Age, and that is a time long since past. So too has come and passed the Second Age, as has the Third.
The House of Aragon may have succeeded and surpassed the House of Elendil in the morning of the Fourth Age, but that once great and noble House has fallen far from its former lofty heights. A once united West destroyed itself in the wars of the latter Fourth Age and is now divided by hatred and beset from within and without. Dwarf has turned against Man who has turned against Elf who has turned against Dwarf and back again, while the Hobbits have been forced from the Shire and now labour under yokes and by wills that are not their own. The Ainur have retreated from this Middle Earth, towards a Valinor that is not beset by the foibles and discordance of the mortal races as they tear the world apart in their greed and pride.
The Great Song is failing. Within the century the Ainulindale, the mighty work of the gods who sang Arda will fall apart into meaningless noise, cacophonous screeches and horrors as yet unimaginable for those who live within the world shaped by it.
A new Age must come, and without the Ainur to help give shape to the song it falls to the races of Arda itself to try.
But even if all the races united.
But even if all the races learned how the sing the many parts of the songs of the gods.
But even if all the races did so perfectly.
It could not ever possibly be enough to perform even a tiny part of the Great Song well enough to stretch the time left with so much as a single day.
Arda despairs, for it knows it is doomed.
And yet, there is a small group with an audacious plot. Many would call it heresy.
To create a machine and give it life. To create a machine and give it emotion. To create a machine that can Sing and lead the Great Music into its intended purpose.
But a machine is not enough. One machine is not enough, for there are so many parts to sing that even the Ainur sang together. It must be more than just another machine, living as it may be.
And yet, even if there were enough machines to sing it would still not matter. No matter how many of them there are all their voices raised in a grand choir would be drowned by the distance and the Ainur's refusal to hear.
No, to usher in the Fifth Age they must find Ar-Ciel, the Tower of the World, climb up its many steps, brave its dangers and pray they have the wisdom and strength left to become the Maidens That Sung The Hymns That Spoke With The Gods.
Or, in less flowery text; Ar Tonelico and the world of the Lord of the Rings and the Hobbit. Because the universal principles of both are basically pinned on a piece of choral music.
Arda has been dying ever since before the First Age, and that is a time long since past. So too has come and passed the Second Age, as has the Third.
The House of Aragon may have succeeded and surpassed the House of Elendil in the morning of the Fourth Age, but that once great and noble House has fallen far from its former lofty heights. A once united West destroyed itself in the wars of the latter Fourth Age and is now divided by hatred and beset from within and without. Dwarf has turned against Man who has turned against Elf who has turned against Dwarf and back again, while the Hobbits have been forced from the Shire and now labour under yokes and by wills that are not their own. The Ainur have retreated from this Middle Earth, towards a Valinor that is not beset by the foibles and discordance of the mortal races as they tear the world apart in their greed and pride.
The Great Song is failing. Within the century the Ainulindale, the mighty work of the gods who sang Arda will fall apart into meaningless noise, cacophonous screeches and horrors as yet unimaginable for those who live within the world shaped by it.
A new Age must come, and without the Ainur to help give shape to the song it falls to the races of Arda itself to try.
But even if all the races united.
But even if all the races learned how the sing the many parts of the songs of the gods.
But even if all the races did so perfectly.
It could not ever possibly be enough to perform even a tiny part of the Great Song well enough to stretch the time left with so much as a single day.
Arda despairs, for it knows it is doomed.
And yet, there is a small group with an audacious plot. Many would call it heresy.
To create a machine and give it life. To create a machine and give it emotion. To create a machine that can Sing and lead the Great Music into its intended purpose.
But a machine is not enough. One machine is not enough, for there are so many parts to sing that even the Ainur sang together. It must be more than just another machine, living as it may be.
And yet, even if there were enough machines to sing it would still not matter. No matter how many of them there are all their voices raised in a grand choir would be drowned by the distance and the Ainur's refusal to hear.
No, to usher in the Fifth Age they must find Ar-Ciel, the Tower of the World, climb up its many steps, brave its dangers and pray they have the wisdom and strength left to become the Maidens That Sung The Hymns That Spoke With The Gods.
Or, in less flowery text; Ar Tonelico and the world of the Lord of the Rings and the Hobbit. Because the universal principles of both are basically pinned on a piece of choral music.